The Day Before You Came
by Pied Piper
Summary: She left him because he wasn’t good enough.


**The Day Before You Came**

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She left him because he wasn't good enough. Oneshot

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**Author's Note**: So this is part of the "Parents' Series", rightly called so because I can't think of another name. As you can probably infer, this series of drabbles/shorts will feature the parents of the Chosen. The first is called "Collide"; please check that out. This one focuses on Ishida Hiroaki and Takaishi Natsuko, Yamato and Takeru's parents. This series is written out of gratitude for a reviewer whose friendship I'll always be thankful for. 

**Disclaimer**: Don't own. Inspired by Abba's "The Day Before You Came."

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You let him watch, make sure he watches, make sure he's got nothing else on his mind to distract his dark-eyed gaze. You let him stare unblinkingly, but you don't let him get to you. 

Instead you turn on the stove, letting the frying pan heat up.

You open the fridge and ignore the plastic yellow sippy cup, half-full of apple juice. With a shake of your head, you pluck it out from behind a carton of milk and a Tupperware container full of questionable material. He must have fixed dinner that night. You leave the container inside.

Emptying the sippy cup of its contents, you rinse it out and leave it dry on the counter.

By then the frying pan is warm enough.

You made omelets for him on the first date. He came by, wearing that ugly, ratty old trench coat, his favorite article of clothing. He smelled distantly of cigarettes and Ramen chicken noodles, which he later admitted was the sum of his culinary skills. He'd shaved, which you were a little saddened by, remembering how the tiny whiskers on his jaw and chin had tickled your skin when you kissed him for the first time. But he'd only groomed so carefully because he'd wanted to make a good impression for your parents.

It didn't work.

Your parents hated him.

They told you he had no ambition, no grace, no charm. They complained that he didn't even make the kind of money to support a wife, much less a whole family, barely even himself, judging by the way he dressed.

Besides, they said, he was too old for you, reminding you of the eight-year age difference. They wanted you to get back to your studies and return to France where you'd be with the rest of the family. You're still in college, they tell you. You don't a boy like him to distract you.

They warned you that nothing good would come of your relationship with this boy, nothing.

They were wrong.

You return your concentration to the present situation, watching as the eggs cook slowly in the pan.

But watching that steals your memory again, and suddenly you're back on that first date. He's pressing you against the backseat of the cab, your back to the door, letting him kiss your neck and shoulder and wishing you could stay in Japan forever with him and trying so hard to ignore everything your parents said.

You blink again and you remember the next morning, when you wake up beneath him in his bedroom, his forehead resting on your shoulder and his face pressed into the crook of your neck, fast asleep. You think he looks so different when he's asleep. His detached, passive demeanor and quiet, wry humor was what attracted you to him in the first place, but sometimes you wish he'd just be open, he'd just talk to you, just drop all the barriers and walls and trust you. And when he's sleeping, he does.

And when you slip out of his arms and go to the kitchen, your stomach growling in hunger, stretching your sore arms and legs, you don't notice him stir awake. You don't notice that he stumbles out of the bed and follows you groggily. You don't notice that he leans against the kitchen door, arms crossed over his bare chest, watching you in amusement.

You make omelets.

And when you turn around to return the remaining eggs to the fridge, you gasp, startled to see him.

The carton drops to the floor, eggs smashing.

You stumble back and hit the stove, a hand reach back to balance yourself.

He cries out and grabs you, yanking you away from the hot stovetop. His grip is stronger than he meant, and it's hurting your wrist. But all you can think about is the look on his face.

You've never seen him so scared before.

And it gets to you.

You blink again and you remember one night three years later. He's smoking a cigarette out on the porch of the same run-down apartment and you're crying in the bedroom, packing up a suitcase, with Yamato sucking his thumb in the crib and watching your every move.

You go out to the porch and tell him you're leaving.

You're tired of working two jobs to make the money he doesn't, of having to give up your life to be with your son because he's too busy working and fuck it, Hiroaki, how many times do I have to tell you not to smoke near the baby?

He doesn't respond.

You tell him your parents were right. He's never been good enough, and he never will.

And then he looks at you.

It's calm, and piercing.

And it gets to you.

Takeru was conceived that very night.

And then, another three years later, you're back where you started. Making him an omelet for the last time.

And this time you don't let it get to you.

A crash brings you back again, and you shake yourself out of the memory.

The bowl of eggs you were mixing have overturned, spilling all over your shirt and crashing to the floor. He makes a move from where he stands in the kitchen doorway, but you tell him you're fine. Ignoring the mess for now, you flip the omelet in the pan for the last time and transfer it into a plate.

Walking out of the room, you hand him the snack. He's standing still, holding the plate. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," you reply, because it's polite.

You pull off your shirt, walking back to the bedroom to change.

But when you open your closet, you remember too late that you've already packed your clothes.

And there're boxes where your things used to be. And there's apathy where love's supposed to be. And there's heartbreak where memories are supposed to be. And there're your parents, telling you nothing ever good would come out of this. And there're your sons, sleeping in the next room, not knowing you were going to willingly destroy their world in the morning with the news no child should hear. And there's him in the living room, eating the last meal you will ever make for him in this apartment, in this marriage, in your life with him.

And it gets to you.


End file.
